


Under Honor; Honor-Bound; Until the Stars

by shiphitsthefan



Series: Necessities [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 09, BDSM, Castiel in the Bunker, Dean in Panties, Dirty Talk, Dom Castiel, Exhibitionism, Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, Nipple Play, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Panty Kink, Phone Sex, Poetry Reading for Unusual Purposes, Punishment, Sub Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 12:39:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4180185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean needs to get Castiel’s permission to masturbate.  It’s for a case.  (No, really.)  Castiel gives Dean what he needs, but also subjects him to an over-the-phone poetry reading as punishment for being a brat.  (Yes, really.)</p><p>Falls between <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3890449">Negotiating the Spot</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5809951">Best Worst Pie</a>, but can easily be read as a stand-alone fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Honor; Honor-Bound; Until the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> [perfjensen](http://perfjensen.tumblr.com/) gave me the following three word prompt: "panties, table, sky". Wow, follower friend. I really hope you wanted nearly seven-thousand words of kinky smut.
> 
> This story takes place about six weeks after [Negotiating the Spot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3890449).
> 
> All praises to the betaing prowess of my drift-compatible Jaeger copilot [betty days](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sadrobots/pseuds/betty%20days). I'm happy to have introduced you to a new sexy tiems concept. Gonna be proud of that for basically always.
> 
> Please do not repost/copy/duplicate this work to other sites. That's called theft.
> 
> Warning for mentions of the following: spanking, rope bondage, cock cages, and objectification.

The minute Dean figured out he was hunting a succubus, he knew he was in trouble.  Dean wasn’t worried about the actual hunt itself.  This was hardly the first time he’d lured a succubus out of hiding, and his technique was literally foolproof—the sweltering curl of arousal was what the monster craved, after all, and Dean was more than happy to play the lure.

The plan was always the same.  After necessary interviews and research, Dean would return to his room, disrobe, shower.  And then, with painstaking precision gained from years of practice, he would take his time with his pleasure; running his hands over his naked body, fingertips gliding along his skin; touching all his greatest masturbatory hits, like pinching along his neck and jaw with his nails, lingering at his nipples to pull and stroke at them roughly to the point of near pain.  He would fist his cock with a lubed hand, trail the fingers of the other up and down his thighs, and bring himself just to the edge before stopping.

He’d repeat the process over and over until Dean thought he’d go crazy with the sheer need to come, and then he’d stop, pull his clothes back on, and hightail it to wherever or whoever the victims had in common.  His arousal and frustration were usually enough to draw the succubus right to him, whereupon he finished the job, and then _finished the job._  Piece of cake.

Six weeks ago, Dean wouldn’t have stood here in a shitty motel hesitating about whether or not to jerk and deny.  He’s never given it a second thought before, because he’s always had more reasons _to_ do it than not.  Hell, sometimes he edges before a job regardless of what he’s hunting.  He feels like that extra rush of adrenaline and endorphins gives him a boost, more energy to funnel into the fight.  There have been plenty of times, too, where Dean did it just for fun, to see how long he could hold out.

Now, though, there is not simply a good reason not to, but an excellent one.  Now, he has Castiel, his lover, his Dom, miles and states away, trapped in the bunker while Dean solos a hunt.

Dean fidgets, knowing how good it would feel to have Castiel doing this to him, teasing him, telling him to stop just moments before Dean hits the point of no return.  But Castiel’s not here, which means there are exactly zero hands with permission to touch Dean’s cock.  He’s torn, because he knows exactly how to win this fight, _and he can’t do it._

Having rules, much like his relationship with Cas, is as simple as it is freeing.

So, yes, it might have freaked him out a little at first, wearing panties outside of the confines of his bedroom, but Dean had been given permission to put boxers over top to protect his dignity.  He felt much more comfortable those first few days, safe in the knowledge that no one was going to see a snippet of lace on accident.  (He tries not to put too much thought into exactly what, a month and a half later, causes the slight flutter of disappointment in his gut upon remembering that the satin remains secret.)

Dean prefers to sleep nearly naked, so wearing nothing but those same panties to bed is more than fine with him.  Again, it took some getting used to, not going to bed mostly clothed, because hunting had conditioned him to perpetual Boy Scoutdom.  It had been a strange middle-of-the-night moment when Dean realized how much more anxious he was about being woken up unprepared than he was about the possibility of needing emergency medical attention in his panties.  

Dean has undressed.  Showered.  Redressed.  Reundressed.   _Un_ reundressed.  He’s currently standing against the wall contemplating another change in clothing status, because he can’t call Cas and ask to masturbate. 

He’s heard that indecision is, in itself, a choice, but it seems more like giving up, and Dean Winchester never gives up.

Dean rolls his eyes from the phone to the ceiling for the umpteenth time and weighs his options.  One, he could _not_ call Cas and spend another two days tracking this bitch down, which means at least one more dead guy.  Two, he could _not_ call Cas, and follow the same plan as always.  If it’s required for the hunt, then Dean’s forgiven, except this isn’t technically required, so it seems like something he should feel guilty about, which makes him a bit sick to his stomach—

—And apparently he’s going with option three, because the phone’s already against his ear and dialing out.

“Hello, Dean,” a sleep-touched voice grumbles on the other end of the line, and Dean huffs out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Cas,” he says, and he wonders how much relief is conveyed in his voice.  “I need—”  Dean hesitates, because they’re about to wander into uncharted territory.  They’ve never done this unplanned, or over the phone, and maybe they shouldn’t, maybe the dynamic is still too new, maybe—

“You’re thinking too hard, Dean,” says Cas.  “I can hear you vacillating from Kansas.  What do you need?”

“Just to, uh.  Check in?”  It’s a half-truth, a not-quite-lie.  He knows Cas will see through it and eventually call him out, but Dean’s hoping that will make his real reason for calling easier to admit.  It might be bratty of him, making Cas ask simply because he doesn’t want to tell, but Castiel seems to like it when he’s a brat, anyway.

“Tired,” Cas admits, “but otherwise well.  Charlie brought over a crate full of poetry books for me.  She said it was your suggestion?”

“Uh.”  And now Dean’s flustered and rubbing the back of his neck for a completely different reason.  “Well you keep sounding all…  I dunno, _poetical_ and shit when you talk sometimes.”

“It was thoughtful of you.  Thank you, Dean.”

Dean shrugs and mumbles, “‘s not that big a deal.”

“I’ve become very fond of Sylvia Plath.”

“That’s…  Good?” Dean guesses.  If it’s not Vonnegut, it might as well be _War and Peace_ as far as he’s concerned.

“Quite good,” says Cas.  “She had a wonderful gift for wordplay.  It’s very inspiring.  I was actually just finishing up a poem before heading to bed.”

“Oh,” Dean says, and he feels a strange emotion between guilt and disappointment.  It makes his skin crawl.

“Dean.”

“Mmm?”

“Why did you call?”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath and says, all in a rush, “It’s a succubus.”

“Your hunt?”

“Yeah, and I don’t…  Well, I know what to do,” Dean amends, “but I can’t do it.”

If Dean closes his eyes, he can see Cas tilt his head slightly and scrunch his nose as he asks, “What can’t you do?”

“It’s just so _dumb,_ because Sam’s sick and Kevin’s translating and _you’re_ busy because _they're_ busy and my only problem is that I’m—that I need—fuck, I can’t ask,” Dean ends, nerve completely lost.

“Dean,” Castiel asks, “You’ve twice used the words, ‘I need.’  Tell me what it is that you need.”

“You’ve got so much on your plate, and I can find another w—”

“That wasn’t a request.”

And there it is, the voice that shoots straight to Dean’s dick and sets his nerves abuzz.  It’s never mattered what conversation has happened prior to, not in all of the years they’ve known each other.  The minute Castiel dips his tone down below the gravel and into the gravitas is the minute Dean finds his jeans entirely too tight.

Charlie called it “panty-melting” once.  Dean couldn’t agree more right now.

 _“Dean,”_ says Castiel pointedly, and that’s it, Dean’s gone.

“I need to touch myself, sir,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he slumps back against the wall.

“Why?”

“It’s how I hunt succubi,” says Dean.  “I get myself worked up, but don’t come, and then, when I go out to their haunts, they find me.”

Castiel _hmms_ thoughtfully into Dean’s ear.  He swears he feels breath there though he knows it’s impossible.  “If it’s necessary for a hunt,” Castiel says, “then you know you are excused.  We’ve talked about this.  I believe you called it the 007 Clause.”

“I did, yeah,” Dean says, grinning.

“Yeah?” and oh _shit,_ Dean knows there’s an eyebrow raised behind that question.  He knows he’s in trouble when he gets home, and he’s beyond fucking okay with that because there’s no trouble quite as nice as the kind of trouble for which Castiel punishes.

“Yes, sir,” Dean quickly amends, but his grin still widens.

“Then why did you call, Dean?”

“Because it’s not necessary,” he explains.  “It’s the best way I’ve _found,_ but not necessary.”

“Nevertheless,” Castiel says, “it is for a hunt.  You don’t need my permission.”

“No, sir,” says Dean, “but I want it.”

He knows it should be just as impossible to hear a smile over the phone as it was to feel breath through the speaker, but hear Cas smile he does.

Dean doesn’t get the significance, if any, to Cas’ barely-audible mumble of, “‘Under honor, will depart,’” but Dean’s pretty used to not always understanding the words that come out of Cas’ mouth.  When Castiel says, “It was very good of you to ask,” however, Dean knows _exactly_ what’s being said and he feels like he’s won the fucking lottery.

“It felt wrong not to,” says Dean, and that’s not a half-truth, at all.

“Where are you?  Neither city nor county but your position,” Castiel elaborates.  “I want to know everything, from your physical orientation to the layout of the room.  Tell me what you see around you.  Feel free to include any details that strike you as pertinent; I would like a complete mental picture once I have finished relocating myself to the conservatory.  I believe it is also customary for me to inquire as to your state of dress.”

Dean can’t help but laugh a little, but he also knows it’s the reaction Cas expected, so Dean relaxes and begins the inventory.  “I’m standing in this dinky little single occupancy room out on the edge of town.  I think they stopped remodeling halfway through because the walls are like half wood paneling from the fucking seventies and half grungy white.  There’s, y’know, a bed and a chair.  I think they’ve both seen better days.  Tryin’ not to think about how clean they aren’t.  There’s a bathroom, obviously.  Table over against the wall opposite the bed, and wow, I hadn’t noticed how orange this goddamn carpet was bef—”

“Tell me more about the table.”

Dean looks at it, tries to be more discerning, but why would Cas want to know about a motel room table before he tells Dean how to touch himself?  “It’s made of wood?  I mean, I have no idea what you’re wanting here.”

“I want you to set the scene for me,” Cas says matter-of-factly.  “How could I possibly know where I want to _put_ you if I don’t know where you _are?”_

“This is still the weirdest fuckin’ phone sex I’ve ever had.  Probably what editors of _Better Homes and Gardens_ do when they’re long-distance.”

“Dean,” Cas begins with a sigh, “you’re asking for me to Dom you, and you’re aware of my exacting qualities.  What were you expecting if not this?”

“I didn’t ask you to Dom me, I asked for permission to—Okay, yeah,” Dean concedes, “I guess I was asking you to Dom me, but what I was _expecting_ was some sexy talk in my ear, not somethin’ straight out of a Martha Stewart conjugal visit.”

“You’re being very mouthy and flippant for someone asking permission to play with a toy that isn’t theirs,” Castiel observes casually.  “Perhaps you need to be taught how to ask nicely when you get home.”

Dean’s free palm slaps against the wall in an effort to keep himself from grabbing his dick through his jeans.  He presses his hips and ass flat against the wall half a second later, because Dean knows that he’s hard enough right now that, given a little time, he could get close to orgasm just from rubbing his cock against the lace he’s wearing.  But even that slight of a movement was enough to drag a seam of the panties across his erection, and Dean moans at the tease before he can stop himself.

“Are you touching yourself without being told to?”

“I’m not trying to!” Dean yells, frustrated.  “Sir,” he adds belatedly, eyes closed and shaking his head.  “Fuck, I’m terrible at this.”

“No, Dean,” says Castiel, “you simply need to learn your place, and if I have to spank your ass red to teach you, then I have no qualms about doing so.”

Dean bites back another groan.  “Fuck me, I won’t have any of those, either.”

“I believe you had a table to describe to me?”

Dean nods.  “It’s more of a desk.  Got a drawer underneath the table-y part.”

“Is it supported by shelves and drawers on either side?”

“No,” says Dean, “it’s got four legs.  It literally looks like a kitchen table somebody Frankensteined a drawer under.  There’s a lamp on one corner, but the desk’s in front of the window, so there’s plenty of light.  Well, I mean, not at night, so I guess there’s reason en—”

“Stop,” Castiel says, and Dean does.  “Describe the window.”

“Uh, it’s glass?  You can see out of it?  Blinds are broken so you can _always_ see out of it but—”

“And outside your window?”  Dean can just make out the sound of the door to the bunker’s conservatory swinging open.

“My room’s around the back so it’s just the breezeway and then a field and then some houses across from that.”  Dean cranes his head to look outside.  “I’m standing between the window and the door right now.  Sky’s blue, grass is green, and the sun’s about to set.”

“‘Below: a fen where water stood,’” Cas murmurs.

“You quotin’ _poetry_ at me?” asks Dean, and as soon as the words leave his lips, he’s certain he’s sassed too much.

“Tell me, Dean,” Castiel starts, seemingly ignoring him, “if you were to lie down on the desk face up, would you be able to see the sky?”

Dean works the angles in his head, and to his estimation, it works out.  “I think so.  Sir.”

“Good.  I want you to watch the sunset with me,” says Castiel.  “Tell me your words.”

“I need safewords for that?”

“If I say you do, then yes.”

Dean sighs, a noise he’s sure is caught by Castiel.  “Lebanon, Lawrence, Poughkeepsie.”

“And where are you right now?”

“In a motel room waiting for permission to put my dick in my hand and not even get off from it.”

Cas sputters and laughs, bravado lost.  “Dean Winchester,” he says between giggling breaths, “I order you to stop being an insufferable little shit.”

“Not so sure I can do that, sir,” Dean says with a smirk, “but I think that’s what the spanking’s for.”

“Seriously, Dean, where are you?” asks Cas, struggling to recompose himself.

“I’m in Lebanon.”

“Good, good.”  Cas inhales, and Castiel exhales.  “This is what I want you to do, Dean.  Are you paying attention?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are going to put me on speaker and set the phone on the desk.  You are then going to take off everything but your panties.  You will fold your clothes, nicely and neatly, and set them on the bed.  You will take everything off the desk and set those items on the floor in front of the bed, also nicely and neatly.  Do you have lubricant?”

Dean laughs.  He can’t help himself.  Dean Winchester’s carried lube in his bag since he was thirteen and discovered that Vaseline was good for more than chapped skin.  “Lube is go,” he says, and then, “Dammit, I meant yes, sir.”

“I know you did,” Castiel replies.  “Retrieve the lube, and then go stand in front of the edge of the desk facing the window.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” says Castiel, and Dean hears the scrape of a wrought iron chair against the bare floor of the conservatory.  “I’ll be waiting.”

Dean switches the phone to speaker and lays it gently on the desk.  He starts sliding his arms out of his flannel as he walks back the five steps to the bed, wondering what Castiel has planned.  Dean knows he could have simply given him permission and left him to it, not to mention that it’s going to be kind of complicated to direct Dean’s hands when he can’t even see them.

Cas must intend for this to be more like typical phone sex, Dean decides as he unties and kicks off his boots.  Maybe he’s simply starting out like this because of the rules, or because Cas likes the control, likes knowing that Dean is doing what he says even when he’s not there.

Dean finishes taking off his shirt.  He unbuckles, unbuttons, and unzips before pushing his jeans and boxers to the floor and stepping out of them, kicking off his socks as he goes.  It’s chilly in the room, now that his clothes are gone, but it doesn’t diminish his burgeoning erection.  Beneath the two outer layers of denim and cotton, it was nearly invisible; now, however, it tents the fabric of his panties, pushes obscenely against the white lace.  This is Dean’s favorite pair, so flimsy and feminine that it paints a blush on his cheeks just to see them on his body.  The waistband, normally comfortable during his day-to-day activities, is digging slightly into his skin as the durability of the underwear is challenged by his thickening cock.

He realizes he’s wasting time staring down at himself and hurriedly folds his clothes.  Likewise, he rushes through clearing the desk and searching his duffel for the lube.  As he goes to stand in front of the desk, however, he realizes something else: if anyone walks past this window, they’re going to get a goddamn eyeful.  That really, truly shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does.

Then again, considering the way Cas had questioned the low ranking Dean gave to exhibitionism, perhaps it should.  And here he’d thought it was only Cas’ kink.

“Here, sir,” he says, already a bit breathless at the thought of possibly being watched.

“Excellent,” Castiel replies.  “Now here’s what going to happen.  You already know that you aren’t going to come, but that’s hardly a punishment in this situation considering that you aren’t interested in having an orgasm to begin with.  But I _do_ have to punish you, in spite of how good you were, choosing to ask my permission when it wasn’t needed.  Do you know why?”

“No, sir,” Dean says as his cock leaks pre-cum into the lace.  He doesn’t understand why the promise of punishment is always so exciting for him, why he loves Castiel’s strictness so much, but he’s not questioning it, not right now.

“Because you are rude, you prevaricate,” Castiel says, “and, most importantly, you interrupted my reading.  Now it’s very recently been brought to my attention that you enjoy spanking too much for it be considered a proper reprimand—”

“You like it, too,” says Dean with a smirk.

Castiel sighs, heavily and long-suffering, before saying, “That’s hardly the point.  Also, I’m not there, so I couldn’t spank you if I wanted to.”

“Don’t you want to, sir?” Dean asks, biting his lip coyly for no one’s benefit but his own.

Castiel laughs, low and dark.  “Dean, if I could, I would _keep_ you over my lap.  I would spank your ass so hard and so often that it would stay warm and aching.  I could listen to you sniffling and crying and moaning and gasping all day.  It’s my favorite sound.  You’re so beautiful when you break.”

“Oh fuck,” are the only words Dean’s currently able to remember.  He’s gripping the edges of the desk so hard that it hurts.  His knees feel weak, and they haven’t even really started.

“You could come just from my hand meeting your ass, couldn’t you?”

“Don’t know, sir.”

“I do,” says Castiel.  “I know you could.  It might take time, but I’m sure that if your ass gets hot enough, if I get you screaming with each slap, you’d come harder than you ever do getting fucked.  And do you know what I’d do then, Dean?”

Dean let go of the desk and is bent over it now, instead, his arms folded under his forehead.  The movement’s pulled the edge of his panties into his crack, and now there’s the barely-there tease of lace over his hole, too, and Dean croaks out a, “No, sir,” as he tries his hardest not to wiggle his hips.

“I’d keep going,” Castiel continues.  “I’d clean you up, and then I’d start all over.  You know, Dean, if you can come from being spanked, I think that I’d try to edge you with it next.  Turn you into a whimpering, begging mess, get you so close to orgasm that you can taste it, and then stop spanking you.  Rub your tender skin—”  And there must be some joke there, because Castiel chuckles a bit.  “—Run my fingers through your hair to ground you, calm you down.  Then, I’d begin anew.  I could do that for hours, Dean, and you’d love it, wouldn’t you?”

“Holy _shit,_ yes, sir, please and thank you,” and Dean is absolutely convinced he’s not going to survive this phone call.

“I knew you would,” says Castiel.  “And that’s exactly why we can’t use it as a punishment.  Can you guess what I’m going to do instead?”

“No, sir, I…  I…”   _Can’t think anymore you kinky fucking bastard._  “I don’t know.”

“I’m going to make you listen to poetry.”

There’s no way Dean heard that correctly.  “You’re gonna do what now?”

“Sit on the edge of the desk, Dean.”

“No, I mean, how are you going to get yourself off if you’re busy reading me a stupid poem?”

There’s complete silence on the other end of the phone.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says with a wince.

“Sit on the edge of the desk, Dean.  Scoot back until the back of your knees hit the wood.  Let me know when you’re in place.”

Dean gets into position.  He hasn’t felt this uneasy about poetry being read to him since he had to pretend to give two fucks about Longfellow for an in-class essay in the seventh grade.  “I’m here,” he says, his back to the phone.

“Is it sturdy enough?” asks Castiel.  “Did it rock any?  Uneven legs?”

“No, sir, I think it’s fine.”

“Good.  I want you to wrap your left foot behind and around the left leg of the table.  Right foot behind the right.  Can you do that comfortably?”

Dean tests it.  He finds that he can.  It spreads his legs wide, keeps him exposed, pulls the lace even more tightly across his cock.  Dean is already aware that Castiel wants him to lie down on the table, and having his legs like this?  If he lies down, it’s going to force his legs further apart, put an even greater strain on his panties, make the lace even tighter, trap his cock against him.  He’s not going to be able to rub himself against the lace, because moving his hips is going to be nigh impossible.  All that’s going to be available to him are his hands, and he finds it distinctly unlikely that he’ll be using them on his dick anytime soon.

He’s about to be completely at Castiel’s mercy, and Castiel _isn’t even here._

“Dean?”

“I can, sir.”

“Have you considered yet what a nice window display you’re about to make, Dean?  Or are you too busy thinking about how your cock and balls will be caged in something so delicate?”

Dean moans.  “Both, sir.”

“Lie back, Dean.”

Dean does.  The wood of the desk is cool against his back.  His phone is next to his right ear now, the lube on the left side of his head.  He can, in fact, see the sky from his position; it’s already taking on a warm, golden hue as the sun prepares to set.

“Lubricate the fingers of both hands,” Castiel orders, all clinical and professional, and Dean does.  It’s cold, so he rubs his fingers together to warm it up.  They slip and slide against each other.

“Done, sir.”

“I want you to play with your nipples, Dean,” says Castiel.  “Don’t stop until I say you can, and don’t make a sound, either.  No talking unless I ask you a question, you need to safeword, or you’re about to come.  I don’t want my reading disturbed.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You should start.”

Dean’s a little confused about the lube, but he’s down for nipple play regardless.  He brings his fingers up to his nipples and tentatively rubs them and—

Oh.

_Oh._

Shit, how has he never thought of doing this before?  Dean circles each nipple with the tips of his pointer fingers and they just _glide._  He’s usually rough with himself because, while Dean’s gentle with other people, he doesn’t seek out the same kind of care when he’s not in control.  Right now, though, Dean just wants to explore.  He wants this to last.

“‘Bucolics,’” Castiel reads aloud, and Dean can’t control the roll of his eyes.  He considers speeding up his fingers, after all.  Get this over with faster.  But Dean’s quickly getting into the easy slide of his fingers against his nipples.  It’s like a slow burn along his nerves and down to his groin, but, as arousing as it is, he’s not really noticing his erection right now.  Every ounce of focus he has is zeroed in on his chest and the sensations his fingers elicit.

Dean eventually gives a tentative pinch to his right nipple and has to suck his bottom lip into his mouth to silence the shuddery moan he wants to make.  His eyelids close as he rolls it between thumb and finger, barely applying any pressure.  It’s like his calluses are gone.  There’s no uneven edges to the pads of his fingers.  All he feels is smooth, slick, exquisite motion.  He does the same to the left nipple and has to remind himself to breathe.

It’s less like he’s toying with himself, and more like he’s _playing_ himself.

He hears the word “cock” roll out of Castiel’s mouth and Dean’s aware of what’s happening in his panties again.  Everything’s snug within the lacy confines, and Castiel was right, he _does_ feel caged, and that thought really shouldn’t make his dick jump like it does, because he’s not into that.  At least, Dean’s pretty goddamn sure he isn’t into that, though the suddenly growing wet spot of pre-cum collecting on his skin is convincing evidence otherwise.

He’s worked his nipples tight and stiff before he starts squeezing them in short strokes, then tugging on them, worrying them back and forth before returning to the slow roll between his fingers.  Dean wants to be home, wants Castiel to actually bind him—they’ve practiced enough; it’s time to do something besides tie Dean’s arms behind his back, goddammit—wants Castiel to be tormenting him like this.  They could do it on breaks during Spanking Day.  Dean’s quickly planning the whole thing out.

Fuck, they could do it every day.  Dean’s game.  He has precisely nothing better scheduled for the next ever.

“Don’t you think so, Dean?”

“I…  What, sir?”

Castiel sighs.  “I imagine you’re too distracted by the way the setting sun is painting the sky to listen to me, yes?”

Dean opens his eyes.  The sky is a brilliant orange slashed through with streaks of rose and coral, yellow and beige where the light streams through the clouds  The sun will be low enough soon to be in his eyes, bright and blinding, but it will dip behind the roofs of the houses across the field quickly.  It occurs to Dean that someone might be looking out the rear window of one of those homes right now, watching him.

“Or have you been too caught up in your own touch?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean says.  “It just—”  He chokes back another pleasured gasp; his hips had tried to seek friction and not made it far.  It’s crazy, absolutely fucking absurd that Castiel’s tied him up from the other end of a phone call.  Dean’s bound by words alone.

“That’s what I was saying, beloved,” and oh, Dean must already be farther gone than he thought, if he’s broadcasting his thoughts and Castiel’s breaking that name out.  “‘Then, honor-bound, mute grazing cattle;’” he recites.  “A bit like you right now, don’t you think?  Docile.  Silent.  Bound by honor.”

Dean’s not a cow.  Fuck, he might be a cow.  Is Dean a cow?

“No, Dean,” says Castiel around a laugh.  “You aren’t a cow.  But you are very good.  You’re doing so well.”

The pride makes him feel dizzy, or maybe that’s the heat.  He’s smothering warm, inside and out.  No, no, he’s boiling inside, liquid fire trapped in his groin and spreading, little fingers that lick and steam under his skin.  Dean’s hips keep trying to shift back and forth on the table, but it isn’t working, and that makes him try harder and harder and harder so _hard_ he’s “So hard, sir, feels good, fuck, _fuck.”_

“And what else?  What do your fingers feel like?”

“‘S like tongues.  Mouths on my nipples, sir.  Sucking.”  Dean’s nipples are starting to ache, but it’s not painful, not yet.

“It will hurt eventually, but it’s a pleasurable torture for now, hmm?”

Dean nods furiously, turning his face toward the phone.

“If you’re nodding, I can’t hear you.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” says Castiel.  “I wish I was there.  You wouldn’t be honor-bound if I was with you, would you?”

Dean thinks he pants out a _no_ and a _sir_ and a _please._

“No, you’d be struggling against ropes wound round your arms and your legs while I made you writhe with my hands.  Well,” Castiel muses, “maybe only the one hand.  I’d need one free to hold my book with.  Speaking of, where was I…”

Words float out of the phone, but Dean only catches a few.  For some reason, the idea of being basically ignored while Castiel occupies himself elsewhere is incredibly erotic.  Dean’s mind conjures up some vivid images that, were he in his right mind, he would immediately push away.  But right now, he likes picturing himself knelt in front of a chair; head resting against the floor; blindfolded; gagged; forearms bound to his legs; playing footstool while Castiel reads.  He’s becoming increasingly, deliriously, deliciously lost in his head.

Dean can’t couldn’t doesn’t acknowledge the existence of his dick; there’s a sun out there somewhere but he doesn’t couldn’t can’t see it.  He exists in the pinpricks of pain and the undulation of pleasure that comes from the manipulation of his nipples and in the rasping melodic mantra that is Castiel’s voice.  There’s something about nettles and raw and burning and then a rustling of pages and where are you Dean?

“Lebanon, always in Lebanon.”

“Would you like to stroke your cock now?”

“D’wanna stop,” Dean says, “d’stop, sir, wanna be good.”

“You’ve been excellent,” says Castiel, and the reassurance falls over Dean like a blanket.

But he’s already so hot, and his mouth is so dry, and if Dean concentrates he can feel spit dried in the corner of his lips and running down his cheek, a hard line and oh _hard_ he’s _hard_ still and the lace is pressing into his skin and his pulse is pounding everywhere—

“Are you close, Dean?” Castiel asks.  “If you’re close, then we’ll need to stop.  It’d be a terrible thing, for you to have called me up and not even make it to the activity you asked for, don’t you think?”

And Dean whines.  He can’t help it.  He can’t move, bound to the table like this.  Dean can’t make Castiel move his hands, can’t stop the never-ending pinching and rubbing and stroking of his nipples.  If Castiel would just drag a finger over Dean’s panties, over his trapped cock, that would be enough to survive on.

“Are you imagining my hands on you instead of yours?”

“Your hands,” says Dean.  “‘S all yours, sir.  Everything’s yours.”

“It is Dean,” Castiel agrees.  “You’re playing very nicely with my toys.  Aren’t you happy I shared with you?”

“Yesyes _yes.”_

“I want you to move your hands away from your nipples, Dean, alright?”

Blood rushes back into Dean’s nipples all at once like a river undammed and he shouts and curses at the pain before he can stop himself.

“Are you still in Lebanon?”

He takes a steadying breath.  “Uh-huh.”

“Good,” says Castiel.  “Now I want you to take one of your fingers and run it down your cock.  Don’t dip underneath those lacy little panties of yours.  Feel it through the fabric.  That will be enough; you said as much yourself.”

Dean’s finger makes it exactly halfway down his erection before he cries out, “Close!”

“Stop.  Watch the sunset with me.”

He struggles to open his eyes, hands balled in fists at his sides, arms shaking with the effort of not ripping into his panties and stroking himself into the mind-blowing orgasm that’s certainly awaiting him.  He deserves it, doesn’t he?  Doesn’t he deserve to come?

“Dean, it isn’t about what you deserve.  You knew I was going to deny you when we started.  If you’re good, if you calm down and watch the sunset with me, then I’ll let you touch your cock again.”

“Yes, sir, I can…”  Dean swallows, briefly distracted by the soreness in his nipples and the throbbing of his dick.  “I can be good.”

The sky is fading quickly from deep pink into purple.  As they watch together, the purple melts into lavender, ever-so-slightly into white, into a gradation of lightest blue to nearly-black.  Dean’s breath evens out.  His body sinks back into itself.  His heart stops pounding.  The sweat cools on his forehead, and he feels chilly again.

“Are you ready?” asks Castiel.

“I don’t know, sir,” Dean says.  “I don’t think I could stop myself a second time.”

“You should sit up then,” says Castiel, “but don’t get off the table yet.  I think you’re still a little wobbly.  Do you have any juice?”

“I think there’s a Gatorade in my bag.”

“That’s fine.  I want you to drink it before you leave.  How are you feeling?”

“My dick’s still hard as a rock, sir,” says Dean, “and my nipples really fucking hurt.”

“Think about how nice it will feel when your shirt brushes against them though.”

“... _Fuck.”_

“Are you sure you aren’t ready to restart?” Castiel asks again.  “Just once more.  I have faith in you, Dean.”

Dean’s hand is shaking, but yeah, yeah, he can go one more time.  “Over or under the lace, sir?”

“Over, I think,” says Castiel.  “And I’d like for you to grind against the palm of your hand.  You can make all the noise you like this time.  I'm going to continue reading now.  You were very distracting before, after all, even when silent.  I wound up reading the same poem again and again.”

“Didn’t notice, sir.”  Dean plants a hand behind him for support and starts to rock his hips, pushing his dick into his palm.  The head of his cock rubs over the heel of his hand every upward stroke and the lace shifts as he moves in a tantalizing caress.  It’s the exact opposite of relief, just as torturous as the rest, knowing his only reward at the finish will be agonizing frustration.

Dean doesn’t care.  It’s perfect.

“Perfect, you say?  You know, if you aren’t careful, Dean,” Castiel says, “I’m going to eventually insist on caging you when you’re at home.”

And Dean and his dick are going to have goddamn _words_ later, because _he’s still not into that._

“I think it’s a wonderful idea, myself.  I’m the one who allows you to touch yourself, aren’t I?  Are you not mine?  Wouldn’t you like it, knowing I could unlock you and tease you, over and over, just to stop without satisfying you?  Except,” Castiel continues, “that _would_ satisfy you.  You like being tamed.  You like being brought to the edge again and again before letting your cock soften and tucking it away.  No, you don’t like it; you _love_ it.  Think about all the fun things I could do to you, all the pleasure I could bring you, and you’d only have to worry about coming if I wanted you to.”

“‘M close, sir,” and Dean is going to have a talk later with his _entire self._  There’s absolutely no reason those mental images should have had him moaning like a damn whore.

“Stop,” says Castiel.

“Thank you, sir,” Dean manages to say through gritted teeth.  His body is screaming at him for release, but he feels fucking _awesome._  He hears Cas start reading out loud again, giving Dean time to collect himself.  It’s a different poem, Dean thinks, because the phrases echo differently inside his head, fall into different patter—

Oh, great.  First a chastity kink, now poetry appreciation.  Cas is going to ruin him.

Although, now that his faculties are all in proper working order again, there’s a distinct wobble to Cas’ voice, a strain Dean hadn’t noticed before.  Cas is breathing harder, and repeating bits, and—

“You’re getting off, aren’t you?”

“‘A multitude... of shaded grays;’ unlike you,” Cas manages, “some of us…  Don’t have to ask.”

Dean tries his hardest not to pout.  “You’re getting off on me _not_ getting off.”

“‘Quicksands of ambivalence,’ and _some_ of us… Actually _deserve_ to come.”

Dean grumbles as Cas’ groans his way through the rest of a stanza.  He does his level best not to think about Cas wiping his cum on his pants leg when Dean would have gladly cleaned it up for him.  Dean would rather not think about him coming at all, but that option was out considering normally sex-silent Cas was being purposefully loud.

“‘So we could rave on, darling, you and I, until the stars tick out a lullaby,’” says Cas after a satisfied sigh.  “But I believe you have an appointment with a succubus.”

Dean asks, “You still throwing poems at me?”

“The first part was from ‘Love Is A Parallax’.  The second was me reminding you of the time.”

“Somebody might call this romantic,” Dean says, his bitter feelings gone; it wasn’t like he didn’t get what he asked for, after all.

“What, a Dom reading poetry to his sub as punishment in a BDSM scenario?” Cas asks, skeptical.

“I said _somebody.”_

“Why?  Do you?”

Dean blinks.  “Do I what?”

“Call this romantic?”

After considering it for a few seconds, Dean decides that, “I might.”

Cas’ smile is so loud that Dean almost wants to turn down the volume on his phone.

“Best of luck on your hunt,” says Cas.

“Oh, no worries there,” Dean replies, finally easing himself off of the desk.  “Gonna be surprised if she doesn’t come tearin’ out of the bar to meet me in the parking lot given the state I’m in.”

“Call me if you drop, Dean, alright?” Cas asks, sounding slightly nervous.  “I’m not there to catch you if you do, but I’ll have my phone on the loudest setting and—”

“It’s okay, Cas.  I swear, if I start to drop, I’ll call you.”

“And don’t forget—”

“To drink the Gatorade,” Dean finishes for him.  “I know.  I won’t.”

“You should call me when you get back to your room, anyway.”  Dean can picture Cas sitting there in the conservatory, eyes on the stars, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, a book in his lap, waiting for Dean to call and tell him he’s safe.  It makes his heart hurt as much as it brings a smile to his face.

“Was plannin’ on doing just that.  Besides, I’m gonna need to get permission aga—son of a _bitch!”_

“Dean?” asks Cas.  “Dean, are you okay?”

“This fucking t-shirt’s made of fucking sandpaper!”

Cas’ laughter is loud and long and lovely.

“It’s not funny,” Dean insists.  “My nipples are perky and painful.”

“I’ll make it up to you when you get home,” says Cas in a voice made for sin.

And that’s the kind of promise that makes Dean want to get in trouble far, far more often.

**Author's Note:**

> The poems read by Cas in the story are ["Bucolics"](http://www.internal.org/Sylvia_Plath/Bucolics) and ["Love Is A Parallax"](http://poems.writers-network.com/sylvia-plath/love-is-a-parallax.html), both by Sylvia Plath.
> 
> The accompanying photoset for this fic can be found [here](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/122116701454/under-honor-honor-bound-until-the-stars-by). If you liked the story, I would greatly appreciate your reblogging it.
> 
> You can find me on my [tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/). I also chirp occasionally witty things on [twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan).
> 
> Kudos and comments validate my existence. <3


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